


Ghosts of Paris Present

by rowofstars



Series: Ghosts of Paris [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Episode AU: s02e13 Doomsday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-07
Updated: 2009-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to <a href="http://nylana.livejournal.com/13390.html">Ghosts of Paris Past.</a>An AU Ten/Rose reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Paris Present

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/profile)[anepidemic](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/) , my faithful beta. This is the sequel to a fic I wrote for one of the [](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/profile)[then_theres_us](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/) challenges. The response to the first one and the way I felt at the end of it inspired me to continue the story. It's sort of necessary to read [the first one](http://nylana.livejournal.com/13390.html) in order for this to really have meaning. I am writing a third for this little unplanned series, in case anyone is curious. :)

The second time Rose was in Paris there was a revolution.

The year was right, and the Doctor warned her about the violence of the time, the brutality that sometimes accompanies radical change. She wasn’t swayed, insisting that she needed to see the real thing this time, not the Mardi Gras like revolution of the future. So, disguises in place, they wandered the streets, the cacophony of history around them.

Back in the comfort of the Tardis, Rose swallowed another forkful of cake, grinning at the Doctor’s suggestion that perhaps this isn’t what Marie had in mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An empty glass sits on the bedside table atop a paperback book, its spine split and worn. There’s a wine bottle beside it with a gold label and broad strokes of calligraphy. Rose lies on her side, watching the moonlight as it breaks against the window and spills onto the carpet. She can hear the muted sounds of nighttime through the partially open window while her mind churns on a never ending list of what ifs.

A phone call from Torchwood earlier in the evening cut her trip short. Things are changing. A rift may be opening, small and possibly insignificant, but it gives her hope. She’ll take any sliver of it she can get, after three years of feeling misplaced, looking over her shoulder for the shadow of a man who was never there.

It’s been a pilgrimage of sorts, these trips of hers, though she has yet to discover any sort of enlightenment or experience spiritual renewal. She feels better sometimes standing in her old footprints, and it’s become one of the few places she can think of him freely, without the tight pain in her chest.

A breeze flutters the curtains, lifting them away from the window. The cool air soothes her skin, flushed from the wine, and she rolls over, lifting her hair away from her neck to fan out over the pillow. A stronger gust pushes its way in carrying with it an achingly familiar sound, a whirring and grinding she’s only heard in bittersweet dreams.

Instantly she’s on her feet, pulling on her jeans and rushing out the door, leaving the room key card sitting by her book. Too impatient to wait on a lift, she ignores the red warning sign and shoves open the stairwell door. Her bare feet pound the stairs, the screech of the fire alarm drowning out everything but the desperate thrum of her heart.

She bursts into the narrow alley and stops abruptly, falling back against the heavy metal door as it slams shut. Closing her eyes, she takes two slow deep breaths, preparing for the imminent disappointment of chasing another wrong turn.

When she opens her eyes it’s there, the blue box, and the ghost she’d almost stopped believing in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Traveling three hundred years back in time just for a chocolate éclair seems a bit much, but the Doctor figures that a Time Lord with a time ship might as well be a little frivolous now and then. It isn’t as if there is anything that needs immediate saving, and it’s been far too long since he last wandered the streets of Paris, following his nose to the fragrant patisseries. He’s almost good enough to convince himself it’s only about the pastries.

The Tardis shakes and shimmies its way through the vortex while he strolls around the console leisurely flipping switches and pushing buttons. He tries to focus on piloting the Tardis so he can ignore the real reason for his visit. London would be the more obvious place to go but there are too many unhappy moments lingering there, and every street seems to be lined with white walls.

He lands the ship a bit off target, late evening instead of early morning, and the shops won’t be open for hours. It feels like the sort of night to lose himself in the lights of the city. He’s always been good at losing things.

The cloth of his long coat slides up his arm, wrinkling the pinstripe sleeve underneath and he frowns, tugging at the cuff to smooth it out. Then he’s hesitating at the door, one hand on the handle, the other slipping into his pocket. He has the strangest feeling of being out of place, like the instant after a regeneration where it’s as if the universe has jumped tracks and left him behind.

Shrugging it off, he steps out and comes face to face with what he thought was lost forever. His mouth hangs open, his hearts pause, and it’s all he can do just to remember how to breathe. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, praying that when he opens them she will still be there, solid and warm and real.

Slowly, he looks again, and it’s a night for lost things being found.


End file.
